Taking himself firmly in hand mentally, trying to shake off the melancholy that portrait of April had inspired in him, he rummaged in the top drawer of the dresser and came up with some perfunctory cotton briefs, deciding against a bra because he didn't want her to wear one, rather than figuring she might want one. Nightgowns—also probably older than the hills—were in the next drawer, and he took two. Once they'd ruled out problems with the concussion, she'd probably be released.
He piled the clothes on the bed then turned to the closet, opening the bi-fold door to look for some sort of small suitcase. As luck would have it, there was one just inside the door... in front of a second, framed portrait. Of him.
Clay ignored the suitcase in favor of the painting, tugging it out of its hiding place gently to bring it out into the light. He sank down on to the protesting bed with it still in his arms.
It looked like something that belonged on the cover of one of those bodice buster romance novels. All he needed was a hook and patch. It was practically pornographic, even though he was fully clothed. The look in his eye—how had she gotten that look in his eye so right when he'd never so much as kissed her in anything but a brotherly way until a few months ago?
When had she painted this, anyway? He began searching the bottom corners of the picture, looking for her artist's signature. There it was, bottom right. She'd painted it over ten years ago.
Walking over to set it up against the wall, Clay found he couldn't take his eyes off it. That painting was as obviously a labor of love as the one of April was. Only this was mixed with a heavy dose of lust. Elodie wanted him. Had apparently wanted him for years, and had kept it completely to herself.
She'd never once, ever, let on that she had feelings for him other than that of a sister for a brother-in-law. Clay felt bowled over, and almost ambushed by the knowledge that she'd been in love with him for so long. He also felt stupid for not picking up on it somehow, in some way—not that he would ever have done anything about it. He wasn't that kind of a man. He'd loved April too much to ever hurt her in that way.
But Elodie must have slipped up somewhere along the line, and he'd missed it. Was he that stupid? Or just that oblivious to anyone's feelings but April's and his own? He had to admit that it was probably the latter rather than the former. When he was married to April, he barely saw anything around him but her and his land, in that order. She had been his life. The ranch was a means to a better life. Everyone and everything else had been secondary, including poor Elodie, who had obviously sublimated her feelings for him for decades.
No wonder she'd been so adamant about not wanting to get too close to him even after April was gone—it had become force of habit and, knowing Elodie, she must have been carrying around a thousand times more guilt about her feelings than happiness. She must have been doing penance all this time just because she loved him.
Clay stared at himself blindly. He'd found out more about Elodie in the past half hour than he'd learned in all the years he had known her combined. This was her life. This was where she lived, this dank little apartment. All alone with her paintings, and very little else.
He didn't know exactly what he'd thought about how she lived, beyond recognizing the fact that she was poor. The stark reality of her apartment hit him upside the heart like a two by four. He wasn't the type to snoop deliberately, but he did look in her kitchen, just to see what she kept around to eat. There was a shitload of Ramen in her cupboards and some cans of spaghetti sauce. And that was it. Her fridge had some hot dogs and badly shriveled celery. Other than that, it was spotless.
The phone rang just then, and Clay had to remind himself that it probably wouldn't be right for him to answer it. But as he was heading back into her bedroom to pick up the suitcase he'd packed, a voice filled the apartment from her archaic answering machine. A male voice. "Hey there, kiddo, it's Joshua. Are you up? Are you supposed to work today? I can never keep your schedule straight. I tried your cell but got no answer." The man paused there, as if waiting for her to pick up, then resumed again. "Okay, well, I guess you're not there. I might be in today for something to eat, but I might not. I don't know. Depends on how things at work go—I'm on my cell on my way home from a buying trip. I'll call you from home tonight. Kiss kiss."
The sounds of the sloppy kisses that man aimed at his Elodie made Clay want to retch. Instead, he clenched his jaw so hard that a muscle started to twitch along the side. Who the hell was Joshua? He wanted to know. And when she was feeling better, he intended to find out. And for that matter, who the hell was ahead of him on her emergency call list? Was it this joker?